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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303947">The Road Not Taken</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectrawaves/pseuds/spectrawaves'>spectrawaves</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Christmas, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, and general self flagellation, but this one's actually based on the song, it's a lil spicy but not really explicit, listen when i said angst i meant it, lydia has three sisters in this because i say she does, tis the damn season, tw for imposter syndrome, unbetaed cuz it's a christmas present for my beta, yes the same person the last fic was for</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 12:08:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,804</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303947</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectrawaves/pseuds/spectrawaves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> we can call it even<br/>you can call me babe for the weekend<br/>'tis the damn season, write this down<br/>I'm staying at my parents house<br/>and the road not taken looks real good now. </i>
</p><p>It's been six years and yet the moment Lydia meets Stiles' eyes, it's like nothing's changed, despite the fact that absolutely everything has.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Road Not Taken</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote and edited this in like thirty-six hours cuz i wanted to get it out before christmas. it's about setting barely achievable goals and then perpetuating your crippling procrastination, amirite fellow kids?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Seeing Stiles again is like a punch to the gut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time Lydia had seen him had been when he’d watched her leave him behind, and she’d stared at him in her rear view mirror through the tears she’d refused to let fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet here he is, his eyes exactly the same as they’d been in the moments she’d told him </span>
  <em>
    <span>I have to get out, I have to </span>
  </em>
  <span>be something,</span>
  <em>
    <span> don’t you get that? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And he says, “Hey Lyds,” like there’s nothing wrong with this picture, meeting outside the Christmas tree farm where he works and where she’s buying a wreath for her mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi.” She says back, not altogether very proud of the tremor in her voice because </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>left, not him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ache in her chest pangs with that brutal reminder; brutal accusation, to put a finer point on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pine smell around them is overwhelming in its nostalgia, suffocating her in memories of his pinky finger curled around hers with her head on his shoulder, staring at the Christmas tree they’d decorated together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And god, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she has no right to that pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s your dad?” She asks, because she doesn’t know how to ask about Stiles without saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t tell me anything about your life </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>tell me everything </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>do you still take your coffee with too much sugar? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s good.” He says, wiping his gloved hands on his pants in an unconscious gesture that’s so familiar it would make her smile if the yawning cavity in her chest didn’t exist. “Still Sheriff. Still catching teenagers at Lookout Point.” He offers her a wry half smile but his eyes betray everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all it does is remind her of the fogged windows of his jeep and the feeling of his hands on her waist as she gave him everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She offers him a similarly wry half-smile that doesn’t reach her eyes either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell him I said hi, would you?” She requests and again she stops herself from saying what she means, from saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>does he hate me for everything I did to you? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t want to know the answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She desperately wants to know the answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you need help with that?” He asks her, gesturing to the wreath still tucked under her arm. She’d forgotten about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, I got it.” She smiles politely and he nods, looking adrift in what to do or say next and he’s not the only one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well I should get back--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should go pay--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stop, talking over each other and it’s so reminiscent she gives him a genuine smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been good before; better than she deserved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should go pay.” Lydia tries again and Stiles nods again, waving a hand out to direct her past him in his usual grandiose way. He’s the same as he’d been and yet so different. Six years is a long time to wish you’d never known someone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She follows his direction along the path made by footsteps rather than intention and resigns herself to feeling the pain she isn’t allowed to feel when he calls her name--when he calls </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lydia </span>
  </em>
  <span>and not </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lyds </span>
  </em>
  <span>and that hurts too--and she turns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good to see you.” He says, and he means it and that’s the worst part. The earnest furrow of his brow and the honest slope of his shoulders broadcasting that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>means it </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a way she knows so well and she has no choice but to believe him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she wants to say</span>
  <em>
    <span> I hate seeing you </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I never want to </span>
  </em>
  <span>stop </span>
  <em>
    <span>seeing you </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I haven’t stopped thinking about you in six years </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she says none of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You too.” She says, and she honestly can’t tell whether or not it’s a lie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She leaves with her wreath and doesn’t care that it’s shedding pine needles all over the passenger seat of her sister’s car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia’s mother and her youngest sister are cutting cookie dough and kneading bread respectively when she gets home and she sets the wreath in one of the bar stools set around the island with its big red bow and pinecones and baby’s breath and holly berries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t tell me he was working there.” She says quietly. She’s not sure which of them she’s accusing, because Lani is forgetful and her mother doesn’t understand everything that happened between them, but Lydia can't help feeling perhaps a little betrayed, even though she doesn't have any real reason to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles?” Lani asks and Lydia shoots her a withering look that could probably peel paint. It’s not fair, she knows, but everything hurts and she doesn’t know what to do about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lani lifts her floury hands in surrender. “Jesus, sorry. Didn’t realize it’d be such a big deal.” She rolls her eyes and Lydia tries to remember that she hadn’t told anyone anything back then, too marred by her own decisions and bearing scars she knew she’d never lose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.” Lydia says after a few too many seconds. “It’s fine.” She turns and leaves the kitchen before she can say anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wishes Laura had been able to make it home for Christmas, but she’s planning her wedding and Lydia doesn't want to take that from her. But this is the definition of a difficult situation, and Laura had kept her secrets like only big sisters can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia texts her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she scrolls through her contacts just to stare at his name and wonder if this is still his phone number. Not like she’d contact it if it were, but maybe she wishes she would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laura calls her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean Lani didn’t tell you Stiles was working at the tree farm?” She says in place of a greeting and Lydia lips curl up in a small smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She didn’t know it would be a big deal.” Lydia says and Laura huffs on the other end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could she not? You two were…” She trails off but Lydia knows what she’s getting at. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had been big and beautiful and destructive and </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>horrible </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Lydia feels all of it acutely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. We were.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Lydie.” Laura says and Lydia’s eyes squeeze shut at the endearment, the one only Laura gets to use, and the way it makes her feel small and lost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too.” She says, her voice weak and her throat closing around everything she can’t bring herself to say.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lydie, you can let him back in.” Laura says gently and Lydia shakes her head despite Laura being in New York and far from Beacon Hills and only existing on the other end of the phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And tell him what? Wait for me? I’m not staying?” Lydia wants to snap, but she just feels sad. She sits heavily on her bed and tries to forget every night Stiles had spent in it, tangled up with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter what you say.” Laura says and Lydia frowns. “But you owe it to him to try.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not a good idea, Laura.” Lydia says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’ve missed him every day for six years.” Laura reminds her, voice hard. “Don’t you think there might be something to that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, as usual, Laura cuts right into the meat of the issue. Lydia </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>owe Stiles and there </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>something to that. But it’s not enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course there is.” Lydia snaps, but even she can feel how flimsy her anger is. “And it doesn’t matter. I have no right to bring him into something he can’t have,” she lets out a breath. “Something I can’t give him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laura says nothing and Lydia waits to hear sisterly judgement that she no doubt deserves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re only there for the weekend.” Laura says. “All you have is a weekend. Don’t you want to try?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The worst part is, Lydia </span>
  <em>
    <span>does. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But she’s terrified of the outcome. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if that means I can’t leave a second time?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would that really be so bad?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia can’t contemplate it. Refuses to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laura.” She implores. Laura sighs gustily on the other side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lydia.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t make me do this when you’re three-thousand miles away.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Laura’s tone is a little more clipped, but she lets it go all the same. The last thing either of them want to do is uselessly rehash an old argument. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s the wedding planning?” Lydia asks, desperate to change the subject and even more desperate for the distraction. Laura indulges her. She always does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Lydia ends up standing in the parking lot between the Methodist church and her high school, she’s not really sure how she got there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that’s not true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She got here because she’s swimming in memories, the cloying feeling of them pressing against her, and she doesn’t know how much longer she can stand it. She has to keep reminding herself it’s only for the weekend. That she has a flight booked for the twenty-sixth and she doesn’t have to come back for another six years, or more, or however long it takes for the scars to heal all over again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But really, she’s sitting here </span>
  <em>
    <span>because </span>
  </em>
  <span>she only has a weekend and she wants to sit here in the cold and masochistically relive every second she’d spent in her car and in his in this parking lot, talking and not talking and sitting with her hand in his, his thumb running along the outside of hers.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her phone rings and she startles out of the memories she’d been gladly suffocating in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gapes down at it when she sees it’s Stiles. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Guess it is still his number, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thinks inanely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She almost doesn’t answer. Almost can’t bring herself to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, despite what she told Laura, despite </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowing </span>
  </em>
  <span>how truly unfair it would be for her to answer, she does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles.” She greets, her voice affectless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you right now?” He asks and she frowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I think I see you sitting in the parking lot next to the school.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia’s head whips around and, sure enough, Stiles is standing a few yards away, one hand holding his phone to his ear and the other in his jacket pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you here?” She asks instead of the million other things she wants to ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He huffs a humorless sort of laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you’re not the only one of us feeling nostalgic.” He says, a bitter edge to his tone, a mocking quality that Lydia is pretty sure she deserves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t think of anything to say to that so he sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hangs up and makes his way over to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want some company?” He asks, gesturing to the stretch of sidewalk she’s sitting on. She snorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t stop you.” She says, meaning she </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>stop him and she really hopes he won’t stop him either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down next to her, his limbs far more graceful than they’d ever been when they were teenagers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t say anything, just looks out at the lake on the other side of the lot; the only thing their school or the Methodist church had ever had going for them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she looks out too. It’s frozen over this time of year and the darkness of the ice is almost eerie now where before it had once been some kind of comfort; where before that ice had been mid-December ice skating with the man sitting next to her now when they’d been barely more than children and now it just… isn't. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’re your sisters?” He asks her when the silence becomes stifling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia looks down at her hands, barely illuminated in the light from the overhead street light, overly aware of how close he’s sitting and yet how far away he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” She says, not really knowing if that’s true. “Lani’s helping mom with baking. Laura’s in New York, planning her wedding. Lizzie should be here tomorrow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She speaks in stilted sentences, each one feeling a little like a dance she doesn’t want to be doing. A dance around the conversation they’re both trying to avoid having. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conversation </span>
  <em>
    <span>she’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying to avoid having. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laura’s getting married?” Stiles asks and Lydia smiles to herself despite everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s the lucky guy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia laughs. She can’t help it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The lucky </span>
  <em>
    <span>girl’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>name is Emma. They met while Laura was working on that film for Sundance.” Lydia says and Stiles laughs. And the sound </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That makes sense.” He says and Lydia smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to face her and she has no choice but to face him too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles smiles. She’d missed his smile. She misses it now even while she’s looking at it. And she hadn’t given herself the chance to notice a few hours ago, but she can see now that he looks the same and yet so different. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d lost the baby fat he’d held onto for years, and his cheekbones are higher and more pronounced than they used to be because of it. His eyes--god his </span>
  <em>
    <span>eyes--</span>
  </em>
  <span>are exactly the same as they’d been, the exact same whiskey shade that she’s never gotten out of her head, but they’re so much older now, older than he is. His hair is longer now, hanging over his forehead in waves and slightly wet from being out in the snow. And he’s more </span>
  <em>
    <span>solid </span>
  </em>
  <span>now, a more self assured presence next her than he’d ever been when she’d known him--when she’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how are you?” He asks, toeing that line, forcing her to confront its existence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia swallows and looks back down at her hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Does she admit that she’s awful? That she only came back because she doesn’t know if she can handle another posturing conversation at a Christmas party for which she can’t afford to properly dress? Does she tell him that she’d wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be something </span>
  </em>
  <span>and all she’s done in six years is get taken for granted and fetch coffee? Does she tell him that all she’d wanted to do was help people and now she’s starting to understand she’ll never be the type of person who knows how? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m home for Christmas.” She says instead of anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” He asks and she gives a mirthless huff of laughter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Needed a change in scenery.” She says and it’s true, but it’s not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bet it’s colder there than here.” He says. She shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence falls on them again and Lydia </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t want to ask, </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>but she also </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>and maybe the indecision will kill her if she’s lucky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you?” She finally asks, her voice quiet, hesitant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles lets out a breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lyds…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s the </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>he says it. He sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired </span>
  </em>
  <span>and devastated but there’s a thread of hope in it that she can’t help but hear and simultaneously wish she couldn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t.” She pleads, softly, like she’s allowed to ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t what?” He asks, and she thinks he should sound angry, but he just sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Don’t tell you I’ve done nothing but miss you for six years? Don’t tell you that watching you go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done? Don't tell you that I thought it would kill me when I saw you today and yet it was the best day I've had in weeks? What do you want me to say, Lydia? Because I’m not gonna keep beating around this fucking bush.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she has no right to ask him to. It’s what he doesn’t say, but she hears it all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to apologize?” She asks, and if there’s an undercurrent of anger in it, she can’t cover it up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you mean it?” He retorts and she almost wants to laugh because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Of course he knows she can’t know the answer to that. She never could get anything past him. He’s always known her too well for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” Lydia admits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles runs a hand over his hair and she peeks over at him in her periphery, at the hand that hangs from the forearm braced on his knee and the fingers that fit perfectly between hers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then don’t.” He finally says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia massages her palm with her thumb, the pressure usually grounding, but now doing nothing more than broadcasting exactly how nervous she is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of her </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry. It really is. But it’s not enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a breath, and she knows he’s going to say something, knows he’s bracing himself to say it and she doesn’t want him to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen.” He says and it feels like her chest caves in, like the wind gets knocked out of her, but he’s not finished. “And I thought it would kill me when you said you weren’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t say anything, her whole body is too tight and yet too hollow and she feels like she can’t get enough air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I’m not the kid I was anymore.” He says. “And I’m not the guy you left six years ago. You’re not the girl that left me, either.” He lets out a breath and runs a hand over his hair again, messing it up further. “And I don’t want you to be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks over at him now, and she can feel the tears that she desperately wants to cry getting stuck in her throat and refusing to come up because when he looks at her his eyes are warm and sad and determined and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopeful </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates it </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>needs it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She needs him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re leaving again.” Stiles says, and it’s not an inquiry--because they both know she is--but she nods anyways, almost reluctantly. His eyes search hers. “So give me the weekend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia blinks at him, and it’s almost exactly what Laura had urged her to do, the most self-destructive thing Laura’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> encouraged her to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the problem is that the road she didn’t take, the one she turned away from and left behind, the one that leads to him and their hometown and a future she’d insisted she’d needed to escape calls to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Stiles is the only person who’s ever really known her. He’s always seen right through her, right through everything she’d tried to put between them, right through the excuses and justifications and brush offs she’d given him for years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, she only gave him a year. She gave them both a year to have each other, knowing the whole time that she’d leave at the end of it, and when she did it felt like she took her own heart out of her chest and handed it to him, leaving it behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe she wants to know what it would feel like to have all of that back, just for a weekend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you saying?” She asks, knowing that whatever he’s asking for, she’ll give it to him. There’s no way she won’t, even though she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>she shouldn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He taps his thumb against his thigh and when he looks back up at her his face is the picture of resolve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can call it even.” He says and hope swells in her chest so fast she can’t stop it because this is more than she could ever deserve. “And we can have the weekend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She holds her breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives her a half smile, his expression clearing of almost all of the pain she put there, and though a sliver of it remains in his eyes, she can hardly blame him for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she knows he’s hoping that at the end of it she’ll stay. Maybe a part of her is hoping she will too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” She says and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the most self destructive thing she’s ever done and she knows they can’t just forget everything and spend the days wrapped up in each other, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ</span>
  </em>
  <span> she wants to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s only seconds--seconds he takes studying her, maybe deciding whether or not he trusts her resolve--after the words leave her mouth that his lips are crashing over hers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s</span>
  <em>
    <span>--god, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s exactly the same and so different because how many times have they kissed in this exact spot? How many times have his hands framed her face and tangled in her hair and how many times have hers clung to his arms and rested on his chest just to feel his heart pound against them? And yet everything is different this time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time he doesn’t wait to scrape his teeth against her bottom lip, doesn’t wait to grip her waist and urge her closer. She can’t get any closer, not if she doesn’t want to climb into his lap right here in the parking lot and she can’t help but break their kiss and laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We really shouldn’t be doing this here.” She says and he laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we’re a little too old for that.” His eyes are dark and trying to devour her whole even while his smile tucks itself in the corners and the expression is so familiar it pangs, but she doesn’t let herself feel it. She pushes it away and decides that this is the one time she’ll lock it all away and refuse to feel it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The one time she won’t pull it out </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> to feel it, like picking at a scab until it refuses to heal properly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you drive here?” She asks and he snorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I walked.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises a brow at that and he just shrugs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your place?” She asks and the suggestion of it sends a thrill down her spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second Stiles’ front door closes behind them he presses her against it and kisses her. He tangles his hand in her hair and kisses her. He trails his hands down her sides and dips to hook them under her thighs and hoist her up and </span>
  <em>
    <span>kisses her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She makes an undignified sort of noise when he’s got her off the floor and stuck between him and the door and he huffs a laugh before ducking to bite at her jaw and kiss down her neck. He definitely didn’t use to be this strong and maybe that’s just a testament to everything going on here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re not who they used to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they don’t want to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles lines his hips up with hers and rolls into her and she moans. Her fingers thread through his hair and he shudders against her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Lydia.” He says against the skin of her neck, and this time her name on his lips doesn’t hurt. It feels like coming home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She whispers and he obliges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes her against the door that first time, whispering </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck you feel so good </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I forgot what you sounded like </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus Lydia </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want you to come for me baby, please come for me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And they sink to the floor right there in the entryway, still wrapped around each other and trying to catch their breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” Stiles says against her lips where he’d been laying slow, sated kisses and she shivers. “I’m sorry.” He says next, kissing her again once he’s done and not letting her get too caught up in that to lose focus on him. “But I do.” He delivers the final blow and Lydia feels a sound like a sob building up inside her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too.” She admits, her voice barely more than a whisper and coated in everything she doesn’t know how to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They unravel and he pulls her to his room. She only has a moment to look around and see that it’s the room of an adult but it’s also </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stiles’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>room before he’s kissing her and trailing his hands all over her body again, this time his touch more like memorization than provocation. Less like he wants to rile her up again and more like he knows he won’t get another chance to reacquaint himself before has to try and forget it all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia’s fingers hungrily trace the outlines of him, simultaneously trying to reacquaint like him and learn his body as it is now, and forget everything she finds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like the fact that his breath still hitches when she tugs lightly on his hair, that he still groans when she moans in his ear, that he still grips her tighter when she says his name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that his hands are rougher now but no less gentle, that he laughs when she accidentally tickles him rather than keeping it in like he used to, that he doesn’t ask anymore but he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>take </span>
  </em>
  <span>either, that he trusts her to let him know when something’s wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t want to know how all these changes happened, doesn’t want to know whose body he knows like hers because it might break her if she did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s only for the weekend, but he’d been hers and she’d been his and she swears to god she doesn’t know if anyone will ever be able to love her as much as Stiles did. As much as Stiles </span>
  <em>
    <span>does. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This time they fuck in his bed, and she swears she’s drowning in him. The scent of him on the sheets under her, the feeling of his hands on her hips and her waist and threaded with hers and the feeling of his body and the way it moves with hers in a rhythm she knows she never truly forgot and never will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s when they’re laying together after, sweaty and winded and facing each other, that they talk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia wants to know what he’s been doing, wants to know that he’s happy, that they people they both knew are doing well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scott and Malia got married last year.” Stiles tells her and she grins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good for them.” She says. “I’m glad they finally got together.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah well, it’s my fault they didn't for a while.” He says, shrugging. “Scott’s too good a friend for his own good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia chuckles. “Yeah, he really is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But a good friend all the same.” He says and Lydia smiles. His fingers trail over her shoulder, his touch light and she shivers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard Lani got a boyfriend.” Stiles says and Lydia laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah I heard that too. He’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>dreamy </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>so smart </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>such a good listener, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or so I’ve been told.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles laughs with her before pulling her closer to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about Lizzie? Anyone she’s got her eye on?” Stiles asks and Lydia rolls her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lizzie says she’s too busy for a boyfriend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying to go to medical school.” He points out and Lydia pokes him in the ribs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but that’s not the real reason she doesn’t have a boyfriend. She doesn’t have a boyfriend because she’s been too much of a coward to ask the guy in her chem lab out.” She says and Stiles grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so?” He prods for more gossip and Lydia laughs but gives it to him anyways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They get up to eat at around two in the morning and Lydia finally has a chance to check her phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The most recent text is from Laura and it says </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t worry, I did damage control, have a good weekend </span>
  </em>
  <span>😘 and Lydia stares down at it, frowning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s up?” Stiles asks from the kitchen, bathed in the light from the fridge and holding a carton of orange juice that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>just finished drinking out of, naked, and looking like a figment of her imagination. She lets herself look, knows she won’t get many other chances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laura just said she did damage control?” Lydia answers after a moment and Stiles snorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia looks back down at her phone to see a sea of texts and missed calls, ranging from inquiring to pissed off. She gives them a cursory look before locking her phone completely. If Laura says she handled it, she handled it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia will have to get her another, nicer Christmas present this year. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sets her phone on the counter and reaches out for the orange juice. He hands it to her but doesn’t let her go, he just grabs her wrist with his other hand and reels her in for an orange-flavoured kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally break apart she’s almost dizzy and ready to get back to his bedroom and continue on like they’d been, but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush. He starts swaying with her until they’re just standing in his kitchen, dancing in the refrigerator light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They do eat, reheated lasagna and orange juice from the carton, and Lydia hasn’t felt this young and dumb in years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they’re done, they go back to his bedroom and kiss lazily, both too tired to start something now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She falls asleep in his arms for the first time in six years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles wakes her with his head between her thighs and she rides him until her legs are shaking with the effort and collapses on his chest when she can’t anymore. He has no problem rolling them over and finishing them both off like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lays on top of her for a while, listening to her heart beating and occasionally humming when her fingernails scrape against his scalp in just the right way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you get your mom for Christmas?” He finally asks and she laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Burberry sunglasses.” She answers and he whistles. “Yeah, Laura had to help me pay for it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you were some big shot lawyer in Boston?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorts, the sound bitter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, if you can call an overworked intern who just lost her internship for having the audacity to want to go home for Christmas a big shot lawyer,” she says in a rush and then inhales when she realizes it’s all out there now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paid internship?” He asks and she exhales. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sort of. I had it for a long time, they only started paying me about five months ago.” And now that she’s given herself the time to think about it she feels like crying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Lyds.” Stiles says. Just that, just a simple apology, and maybe it’s exactly what she’d needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” She says softly. “Me too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes her breakfast while she sits on the countertop in his tee shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They talk all day. Sometimes catching up, sometimes gossiping, sometimes about nothing at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s only once morning starts bleeding into afternoon that she even realizes it’s Christmas Eve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She calls Laura, still wearing Stiles’ tee shirt while he scrolls though his phone in his boxers on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So how far does ‘damage control’ go?” Lydia asks when Laura answers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that depends.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whether or not you’re willing to never live it down if you ditch Christmas.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Laura.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lydia pleads. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay, look, mom will never understand it, she’s gonna hold it against you for years, but Lizzie and Lani are already on your side.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you tell them?” Lydia whispers indignantly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Laura says, “but I had to get you some supporters to get mom off your back. Lani’s more than ready to do something worse to take the heat off of you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia coughs a laugh, because Lani would probably do so on her own, but that she’d do it intentionally and </span>
  <em>
    <span>for Lydia </span>
  </em>
  <span>is strangely sweet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So they don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lydia checks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That you’re fucking your high school boyfriend silly? No.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Laura!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lydia hisses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? You’re both consenting adults, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> an adult, it’s all good Lydie.” Laura says and Lydia can </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>the eye roll. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah and I don’t really want to talk to you about this.” Lydia mumbles, the back of her neck hot when she looks up and sees Stiles looking at her with a raised brow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bullshit, you absolutely do, and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>when you’re done jumping his bones.” Laura says, and she’s neither kidding nor expressly </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Have fun!” She sings before hanging up on Lydia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia squeezes her eyes shut and tries to overcome that specific, older-sister-induced mortification. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So do you have to make a guest appearance at your mom’s Christmas Eve dinner?” Stiles asks and Lydia straightens and sets her phone down on the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” She says. “My sisters are on it. Lani’s prepared to do something drastic if the occasion arises.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles snorts. “Well we’ll have to keep in touch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia smiles and joins him on the couch, laying against his chest, the two of them facing the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about you? Does your dad need you back?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles shrugs. “Not really. Melissa and Scott and Malia are keeping him company.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s suddenly all too real. The bubble threatens to burst around them at the reminder of the outside world, at the people in their lives that know they’re with each other and allowing them to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia’s felt guilty about leaving Stiles from the moment she chose to do it, and it’s never felt as bad as it does now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone knows this is their last chance to be together, and they’re giving them that chance, and it’s only because of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lydia </span>
  </em>
  <span>that anyone has to give them anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia picks at her nail polish, debating asking the question she knows she doesn’t want the answer to, because it’s nothing but a Catch 22. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does your dad hate me?” She finally asks, her voice deliberately blank. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles takes a breath and lets it go in a rush, her head moving with the motion of his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the beginning he did.” He tells her, and Lydia holds her breath, feeling her chest ready to collapse at the slightest provocation. “But I think now he just feels sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?” She asks, her voice shot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles rests his head against hers and starts playing with her fingers, separating them and preventing her from doing more damage to her nails. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he feels sorry for you. That you felt like there wasn’t anything here for you. And for me, for falling in love with the first girl I ever knew.” She can feel him smile against her head and she blinks against the aching behind her eyes. “People are complicated, and I think after a while he realized making you a villain didn’t give you enough credit, and making me the hero gave me too much.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia looks down at their joined hands and bites her lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I realized it too.” Stiles says quietly and she leans away to meet his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you hate me?” She asks through a closing throat, because apparently they’re going to hash this out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands still and he takes a slow breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tried to.” He says, and it lances through her like a knife. “I wanted to.” He says it quietly and it sounds like a confession, like something no one else but her knows. “But I never could.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles eyes are whiskey brown and they stare into hers with everything he is and isn’t saying in them and she might’ve been able to decipher it all at one point, but she can’t anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s you.” He concludes, like that’s the only explanation he needs, the only justification that matters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should.” She whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I shouldn’t.” He says, his voice hard. “And you shouldn’t either.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She almost startles at that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Does she hate herself for what she did to him? Is all the poking and prodding at her wounds she does some kind of punishment? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Should she, </span>
  </em>
  <span>if she doesn’t already? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t.” She says, and that’s how she knows. When she says it, she can feel in her gut that it’s a lie, can feel the guilt for telling it settle ashy in the back of her throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to.” Stiles says, hearing the lie in the same way she’d felt it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bites her lip. “Why not?” She asks, and she knows he doesn’t have all the answers, but maybe he’ll have </span>
  <em>
    <span>some.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Because it’s already happened. And I forgave you for it a long time ago. I understand now in a way I couldn’t then that you didn’t leave because you wanted to hurt me. You left for you.” He says and Lydia feels like if she moves something will break, like even the air around her is fragile. “People are complicated. We can play the blame game all we want, but what matters now is that you’re here, even if you aren’t staying.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But she takes one of his hands and brings it up to press a kiss to the back of it, and he doesn’t make her say anything because there’s nothing she can say. There’s too much that she wants to say and she can’t bring herself to say any of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t stay </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want to stay </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>please give me an excuse to stay </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>if I go I’ll never come back </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how do I let myself love you after all this time. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And she gives him a flash of a smile, a sad, broken little thing that doesn’t last and he gives her a warm but understanding one back and that’s really the moment she knows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles will let her go, if she tries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, in all honesty, she doesn’t know what to do with the realization or the way he’s being understanding even though it must be tearing him up inside like it’s tearing at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she doesn’t do anything with it. She lets the bubble settle back into place and protect them from the world outside that’s far too accommodating of her and her mistakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s too good to be true, this weekend they have together, but she’s in it and she’s living it and she’s going to give it everything she has. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They shower together, getting each other worked up without any real intention to deliver on it, and then resettle into his overly comfortable couch to watch Christmas movies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See, the reason Hallmark movies are so good is that all of the problems are inherently fixable.” Stiles explains, chewing on caramel popcorn from the classically large tin one of his relatives had sent him, occasionally offering it to her. “The main couple gets to be together in the end, and sometimes the problems don’t even happen directly because of the couple, sometimes there’s outside forces trying to break them up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So they’re so good because they’re boring.” Lydia says and Stiles smacks her thigh lightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he argues, “they’re good because sometimes an ending doesn’t have to be complex, sometimes it can just be ‘they lived happily ever after’ and I think people don’t really get that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia rolls her eyes to cover up the pang she can’t help but feel about that, their conversation earlier in the day making it harder to ignore everything she’d tucked away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>obviously </span>
  </em>
  <span>there are exceptions to that, and call me a sap, but I love a good romcom.” He shrugs, jostling her head where it’s placed on his shoulder and she snorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That much is absolutely true.” She says and he shrugs again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not ashamed of my preferences.” He says and she laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you shouldn’t be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They turn their attention once again to the movie playing, something about a time travelling knight and the fact that that’s somehow not causing any real problems for the residents of small town Ohio. Lydia has some critiques that she voices upon occasion and Stiles only sometimes tries to defend the movie but other times he has to agree with her. Stiles knows it’s bad, but maybe bad enough that it’s actually kind of fun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She helps him make dinner once the movie’s finished, nothing like the feast her mother and her sisters have been preparing but better in the way that Stiles takes every opportunity to touch her and teach her and feed her bites under the guise of a taste test but really just to watch the way she licks sauce off his fingers and smirks afterwards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They finish off the night with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Love Actually, </span>
  </em>
  <span>because--somehow--Stiles has never seen it and it’s Lydia’s favourite, and then they slip into an exhausted sleep after what she would classify as very, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> good exercise</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the best Christmas Eve she’s ever had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christmas morning dawns bright thanks to the snow blanketing the town and she has to blink against it and roll over in Stiles’ arms and bury her head against his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning.” he mumbles and she makes a protesting noise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not waking up. Too bright.” She says and he huffs a still-half-asleep laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t end up going back to sleep, but she dozes, resting her head on his chest when he rolls over to check his phone and then waste time scrolling through it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She finally rouses herself completely around eight and shifts to rest her whole body on top of his, her legs bracketing his hips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning.” He says with an impressed sort of tone and she snorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, waking up now.” She says as she nuzzles his chest, her eyes still closed and not at all inspiring confidence in her claim of wakefulness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Merry Christmas.” He says and she hums. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a way to wake up on Christmas.” She says stretching luxuriously on top of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I think you might be right about that.” Stiles says and Lydia chuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That tends to happen.” She says and he presses a kiss to the top of her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s your cultivated brilliance,” he tells her. “You just know things.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s very true, I do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, all knowing one, what would you like to do on this fine Christmas morning?” He asks and she hums, considering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I think I’d like to start by fucking you, and then follow that with breakfast, and then maybe some more movies?” She posits and his hands pull her tighter against him, the evidence of his interest in her plan pressing against her stomach and she giggles. “I’m assuming that’s cool with you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh absolutely.” He says before rolling them and kissing down her body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought the plan was fucking.” She reminds him, her voice going high and breathy when he finally reaches his destination</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll get there.” He pauses to say, grinning, and then he’s working her over so well she’s got nothing left to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afterwards, she feels like a puddle and needs some time to recover before she can think about leaving his very comfortable bed and he snorts at her condition as if he’s not taking pride in his ability to deliver her there. She swats at him ineffectually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakfast in bed?” Lydia requests and Stiles wrinkles his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” He says. “Crumbs in my bed is where I draw the line. I won’t risk it, not even for you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pouts. “You’re no fun.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This just leads me to believe you have a bed covered in crumbs.” He says, his tone obviously conveying his displeasure with the concept and she laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>covered </span>
  </em>
  <span>in crumbs, you drama queen.” Lydia says and goes when he urges her to sit up, and then when he stands her up, offering her a shirt and a clean pair of boxers--she’d ensured they were clean before even contemplating putting them on--and then when he tugs her into the apartment proper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He continues with the steps of her plan, making her pancakes with chocolate chips and pomegranate seeds--she’s surprised he remembers and that he had the ingredients on hand and he actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>blushes </span>
  </em>
  <span>when she asks, telling her he keeps the ingredients around because he’s eaten them ever since they came up with the concoction--and then setting them up with </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a Wonderful Life. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>classic.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He argues and she rolls her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>classic.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She retorts, her tone communicating disdain rather than indignation like his had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re absolutely hopeless and we’re watching it and I’ll let you pick the next one.” He promises and she relents, intending to subject him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Grinch </span>
  </em>
  <span>because she knows it’s one of his least favourites while it’s one of her favourites. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be fair, </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a Wonderful Life </span>
  </em>
  <span>is actually better than she remembers it being, but she’ll never admit it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rather than moving on to the next movie, they sit together and talk a little more about their families.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, I think my dad and Melissa are perfect for each other,” Stiles tells her. “And I would really love for them to just get their shit together and go out already because Scott and I are suffocating in their romantic tension.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia laughs delightedly. “Why don’t you just parent-trap it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you really think we haven’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He rolls his eyes. “We have, but there’s no way to </span>
  <em>
    <span>force </span>
  </em>
  <span>them together. I think Melissa is afraid to approach the subject of dating with him because of my mom, and I think my dad is afraid to approach it because of Scott’s dad and how all of that went down, and because of Scott and me, but it’s stupid because we’re adults and we want our parents to be happy. Plus, Scott and I are already brothers; our parents getting together is really more of a formality at this point.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia laughs again, tipping over into his lap and rolling onto her back to look up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well I hope they do get their shit together.” Lydia says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, me fuckin’ too.” Stiles laments and Lydia reaches up to place a comforting hand on his face and he leans into her touch. She smiles up at him and he smiles down at her and she’s struck so suddenly with </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>that her breath stutters out of her chest. And she wants to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve always loved you </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you </span>
  </em>
  <span>but she doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laura is planning to try and set my mom up with one of her colleagues at her wedding and that will only end in disaster.” She tells him, a little desperate to stay on track. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles laughs. “Oh absolutely, there’s no way it won’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried </span>
  </em>
  <span>to tell her but she won’t listen to me and she has Emma in on it and once they get something in their heads, they don’t let go of it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then I guess they’re perfect for each other.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia snorts. “You have no idea. It’s almost disgusting how perfect for each other they are.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey that’s love.” He says, “Beautiful for the afflicted couple and disgusting for everyone around them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Lydia wonders if that had been true with them too, remembering how beautiful it had been and everything good she’d had because of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess it is.” She says and Stiles smiles down at her. She can see the thoughts she’s thinking in his eyes but neither of them voice it. They’re avoiding all discussions about their relationship--or lack thereof--despite the fact that they’re effectively living out six year’s worth of a relationship they didn’t get to have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he looks sad, his eyes going soft around the edges and his brows furrowing just slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay that you’re leaving.” He says and her breath freezes on an inhale. “I understand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, but it hardly matters because she might wish it were okay, but it isn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles.” Lydia says, the admission on the tip of her tongue and she almost doesn’t say it, almost loses the nerve before she remembers the way he’d looked less than two days ago, standing there like a memory and a daydream all at once, and she spits it out. “I don’t--I want--maybe I want--” She doesn’t know how to say it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to stay.” He finishes for her and she can’t even nod, can’t admit to it even though she’d almost been able to a moment ago because she’s starting to feel like she’s being smothered under the weight of the truth in those four words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could.” He says softly, like he’s afraid to suggest it, afraid of what she’ll say, of how she’ll react. Afraid she’ll reject him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t want to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to.” She says, and it doesn’t feel like a weight is lifted, it really doesn’t. But maybe it feels like release, a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you to.” He confesses, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut against the ache behind them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sits up then, brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, facing away from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what if I can’t?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if you can?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stiles.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean it, I’m not just being contrary.” He tells her. She can feel him reach out to her but he doesn’t touch like she knows he wants to. “Have you thought about what that would mean? Staying here? Truly thought about it, about the logistics and the realities like a job or an apartment or a car? Have you </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia stares at nothing and feels like some of her reality crumbles around her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because she hasn’t, not really. The obstacle had always been Stiles, and the fact that she’d told him she had to leave and she wasn’t going to go back on her word, wasn’t going to force him to be around her after everything she did to him. And if Stiles </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>the obstacle anymore, if Stiles becomes the reason she should come home for good, what then? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why is something in her still seizing up at the prospect? Why does she feel like digging her heels in and refusing to move, refusing to admit--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To admit--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To admit what? That she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong? </span>
  </em>
  <span>That she shouldn’t have left, that it was the worst thing she ever did to herself? That she can’t stand her life or her job or the friends that are so fake she wants to scream about it sometimes? That all she wants is to come home? To not have to wonder about Stiles and the fact that he’d been one of the only souls in the world who could tell the fake smiles from the real ones? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hell, maybe she just doesn’t want to admit that it’s easier to hate herself than to try to fix the mess she’d made when she was eighteen and didn’t know anything at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want me to say?” Lydia croaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can hear Stiles breathing deliberately slow and even behind her. “I don’t want you to say anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> you want?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to be honest or do you want me to tell you what you want to hear?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia turns around then to glare at him, knowing her face is sticky with the tears she hadn’t really realized she’d been shedding and deciding not to care about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Obviously I want you to be honest.” Lydia almost snaps, knowing she’s lashing out at him out of some purposeless need to protect herself from whatever it is he’s about to say and not being able to stop it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” He says, narrowing his eyes at her. “I want you to pull your head out of your goddamn ass and admit you’re miserable. I want you to come home and help the people </span>
  <em>
    <span>here </span>
  </em>
  <span>because they need it just as much as the people in Boston and you won’t have to work an unpaid internship just to climb ranks by kissing ass only to get taken for granted your whole life. I want you to realize that you can be wrong about this and that that doesn’t make you any less than someone who’s trying her best to figure it out like everybody else. You don’t have to get it right, you don’t have to be perfect, and you don’t need to protect me from you when I didn’t ask you to. I want you to stay and I want you to stay </span>
  <em>
    <span>with me.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia feels all of it like a punch to the gut, reminiscent of seeing him for the first time in six years but ten times worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because she wants all of that too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she doesn’t deserve to have it. After everything, after watching Stiles get smaller and smaller in her rear view mirror until she couldn’t see him at all, how can he just take her back? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And, what? You’ll just forgive everything, just forget what I put you through for six years?” She accuses and he makes a noise of frustration and stands up. </span>
</p><p><span>“Of course not!” He snaps. “Of course I won’t just forget about it but I want to work </span><em><span>through it,</span></em> <em><span>together. </span></em><span>I want to figure out how to be with the person you are now rather than the person you’d been and I want to know how to love you without squandering all your potential. I want to figure out how to be the kind of man a woman like you deserves.” </span></p><p>
  <span>“You’ve always been better than what I deserve.” She throws at him, standing herself. “And you shouldn't be wasting whatever forgiveness you’re trying to give me on me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not your choice to make Lydia.” Stiles says, his voice hard and his expression stony. “You don’t get to decide for me whether or not I forgive you because guess what? I already did, </span>
  <em>
    <span>years </span>
  </em>
  <span>ago. I don’t hate you, I never did, I never will and you’re just going to have to get over it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid </span>
  </em>
  <span>sometimes it makes me want to throw something!” She yells. “You think any normal person would just do what you’re trying to do? Would just decide they’re going to love someone that hurts them? It never works out Stiles, not ever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not your father!” He shouts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room stands still, both of them breathing heavily, the silence ringing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve never hurt me like that." Stiles continues softly, "You hurt me honestly. You hurt me because I was going to hold you back. You had a </span>
  <em>
    <span>reason, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a real one, not just to feed your ego or curb your insecurities.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia finally notices the tears streaming down his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I’m not your mom. I’m not trying to save a failing marriage for the sake of four daughters, I’m not putting myself in harm’s way to save others.” He takes a step towards her. “I’m trying to get the woman I love to stay with me because I know she loves me too, and I know she wants to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia stays where she is, her eyes stinging and her throat aching and her arms coming up instinctively to cross over her middle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles takes another step anyways, steps into her space until she has to tilt her head back to look at him. He lifts a hand slowly, giving her the room to push him away if she wants to, but she really, really doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles unwinds one of her arms and places her hand on his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.” He tells her and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia’s lip trembles and she sobs, “Me either.” Because it’s the truth and he deserves that much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls his lips between his teeth and bites down, his jaw shaking and his eyes searching hers under his furrowed brows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>let me.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He begs and she crumples like a house of cards, meticulously constructed and maintained for six years but flimsy all the same, never built to be permanent. She falls into his chest and sobs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” She manages to get out, “Okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles holds her and Lydia lets him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not going to be easy, she knows it’s not, they both do, but dammit she wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified, </span>
  </em>
  <span>terrified that she’ll hurt him again, that she’ll continue hurting herself in ways she hadn’t even recognized for what they were. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she’s hopeful, so fucking hopeful it hurts, because she’s never wanted anything more than this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles migrates them to the couch once they’re both done crying, once they both feel like wrung out sponges, and lays them across it, pulling her against his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She goes willingly. So, so willingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she knows now she never would’ve been able to leave at the end of the weekend. It never would’ve been just the weekend. She’d have kept coming back and breaking her own heart over and over again by leaving the warmest bed she’s ever known, the warmest and most welcoming embrace she ever will know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they finally fully recover he kisses her, soft and sweet and loving and she keeps coming back in, keeps chasing that feeling--of being loved and wanted and </span>
  <em>
    <span>cherished--</span>
  </em>
  <span>for as long as she’s able. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” He whispers and she takes a deep breath, the first full breath she’s taken is god knows how long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s the first time she’s said it in six years and it feels like absolution and damnation and she’s trying not to focus too much on either one of those and instead just lets herself feel it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They do eventually watch </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Grinch</span>
  </em>
  <span> and then she calls Laura to tell her she's staying and Laura cries and she cries and Laura orders her to call their mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother is surprised but absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>delighted </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Lydia gives her a wet laugh and the warning that she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing right now but her mother assures her they’ll get everything handled and they’ll do it together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t have to be alone in her decisions anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Lydia knows Laura made her do it to hold her accountable, to ensure she doesn’t try to run off and go back on her word come tomorrow morning, and Lydia appreciates it as much as she resents it, but maybe that’s okay because her sister isn’t out to hurt her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother also insists that Stiles come over for Christmas dinner, and Stiles’ dad insists upon the same thing and they finagle schedules for a while before coming to a consensus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They split up to get ready and Lydia doesn’t want to leave, both because she wants just a few more minutes where he’s hers and hers alone, and because she’s terrified that the second he’s no longer there she’ll start doubting her decision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she gets out of his car and she puts on an emerald velvet dress that hugs her curves and styles her hair and puts on makeup for the first time in way too many days and smiles at her reflection--also for the first time in way too many days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles’ dad goes first, and he’s exactly as Lydia remembers him being, but she doesn’t know how to act around him anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes the decision for her by pulling her in for a hug that she so desperately needs that she almost breaks down right there, her concern for her makeup the only thing keeping her together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed you, kid.” He says into her hair and then all bets are off and she’s crying against his shoulder and she can’t say anything in response to that, but she thinks Noah understands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scott and Melissa and Malia similarly welcome her in and Lydia wonders how much of this is real and how much is deserved and how much only seems unfathomable because she’s been convincing herself for years that she isn't worth any of it. She can’t possibly know right now, but she’ll have the time to figure it out for the first time in a while, and the prospect is daunting in the same way law school had been. Intimidating and seemingly impossible, but something she’s going to best no matter what it takes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia’s mother cries when she sees her and Lani cheers, informing her that she’d been fully prepared to sneak as much alcohol as possible and make as much of a fool of herself as she could for Lydia and Lydia laughs and thanks her for the strange but very characteristic offer. She simply shrugs and says, “That’s what sisters are for.” And Lydia is once again so dangerously close to crying she needs to grip Stiles’ hand to keep it together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He squeezes back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lizzie tackles her, her wild hair flying around her face as she squeezes Lydia hard enough to hurt but Lydia doesn’t even care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been too long for her to care that her sister might break her bones. It would be worth it for the way that she feels like she’s finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>home. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm so glad you're staying." Lizzie says into Lydia's hair and Lydia squeezes her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia barely experiences opening presents, just offering thank yous and your welcomes where appropriate and floating on an absolutely indescribable high. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they’re finally allowed to go back to Stiles’ apartment he’s on her the second they walk through the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is familiar.” She says, giggling, and he huffs a laugh as he pulls her flush against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s your fault for wearing a dress like this.” He almost growls and Lydia </span>
  <em>
    <span>shudders. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trust me, I’m not complaining.” She says, already breathless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time they actually do make it to the bed and after, when they’re tangled up together and trying to get as close to each other as possible, she whispers into the dark, “I love you.” because she can’t help saying it now that she finally has. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm, love you too.” Stiles mumbles sleepily and Lydia chuckles softly before snuggling impossibly closer and drifting off right behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she startles awake, she’s not really sure what woke her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she hears her alarm going off from her clutch that had been unceremoniously dropped in front of the door last night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls herself from bed, sliding into Stiles’ shirt from last night and stumbling over to the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns off the alarm and then it’s like a bucket of ice water gets dumped over her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What the hell is she </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Who the hell is she to play house and accept the welcomes she doesn’t deserve and take advantage of everything everyone’s given her out of some misguided politeness? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like they have to go along with Stiles just because he’s decided to forgive her and hasn’t given them the chance to make that decision for themselves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>deserve this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she’d been kidding herself to even entertain the idea that she does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she allows herself a few strangled breaths right there in front of the door before she tucks all the hysteria away to deal with in an airport bathroom on her way back to Boston. She creeps back into Stiles’ bedroom to slither back into the clothes from last night, feeling ashamed and foolish for everything she’s done the past few days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Foolish for letting herself get comfortable in a life she couldn’t have and ashamed for dragging Stiles and their families into the delusion as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She walks home. It takes her long enough that the sun is peeking over the horizon and she knows that Stiles will wake up soon and the space next to him that she’d been occupying will be cold and she’ll have a dozen calls to decline until he finally stops trying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she’s breaking his heart a second time and she’s never going to get another chance but that’s fine. She never should’ve gotten this one in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lydia slinks into her house silently, remembering where the key is hidden and which floorboards to avoid on her way back to her room through muscle memory alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She packs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She changes into more airport-appropriate clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She calls an uber. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she waits outside for it to get there, thankful that every member of her family sleeps like the dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t say the same thing for everyone though, it seems. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you gonna tell me you were leaving?” Stiles asks, suddenly there in front of her and she has no idea how she missed him, but it’s too late now. “Or were you just gonna sneak out of my apartment at the crack of dawn and force me to get over it a second time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span> and his face is furious but his eyes are </span>
  <em>
    <span>heartbroken. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” She whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re scared, Lydia.” He says, dropping down to sit there in front of her on the walkway up to her childhood home. “Hell, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>scared. Fuck, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lyds. I don’t know how to make this work. I don’t know what it takes to make a relationship healthy and functional but god </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking dammit </span>
  </em>
  <span>I want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> He meets her eyes and she pulls her lip between her teeth and bites down hard against the tears she </span>
  <em>
    <span>refuses </span>
  </em>
  <span>to cry. “I thought you did too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stiles but don’t you think it’s naive of us to even </span>
  <em>
    <span>try? </span>
  </em>
  <span>To think that we can make it all work just because we want it to?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” He says, angry but determined and above all </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“No, I don’t think it’s naive. I think you’re too scared to try because it’s easier to run back to being miserable because it’s familiar rather than taking a leap with me and that’s not fucking fair.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it, Lydia.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she’s crying again, holding back the sobs she can’t stand to hear right now because her resolve is already so weak and if she lets any of it crumble for even a moment she’ll go running into his arms and beg for forgiveness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please Lyds.” He pleads and she can’t help but look at him now, can’t help but memorize the way he looks now, heartbroken and </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging </span>
  </em>
  <span>and chipping away at the rock of conviction in her decision to leave again that she’d put in her chest the second she woke up this morning. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Please </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t leave me again. I can’t do it a second time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither can she. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesus, she really can’t. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows, </span>
  </em>
  <span>with a burning clarity like sunlight bouncing off snow banks, that she’ll never recover from this. She’ll never get over it, she’ll always be picking at this scab until it can never scar over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>is she going to? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s the point in putting both of them through this again? What’s the use in hurting them both in some senseless attempt to protect herself from getting hurt? She’s hurting herself right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles raises himself up on his knees and cups her face in both of his hands, his thumbs wiping away her tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please stay.” He whispers. “Please stay with me and work through all of this </span>
  <em>
    <span>with </span>
  </em>
  <span>me. You don’t have to do everything alone, you don’t have to put yourself through this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t do this to yourself. Don't do this to </span>
  <em>
    <span>me.”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And it’s right now, in this moment, that she feels every inch of her that’s screaming at her to get on that </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>plane get blown completely out of her brain until there’s no trace of any of it left to find and it's replaced with the startling realization that she's been hurting herself for </span>
  <em>
    <span>six goddamn years </span>
  </em>
  <span>and she doesn't have to keep doing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” She gasps, “Oh my </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, god I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> She repeats it like a matra, even after he pulls her face to his chest and then she's </span>
  <em>
    <span>sobbing </span>
  </em>
  <span>the words, because it feels like she’s finally seeing everything for what it </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>is and not for what she’d been spending the last couple of hours convincing herself it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, it’s okay, shh, you’re okay, I’m right here, it’s okay.” He mumbles into her hair, holding her steadfastly when hysteria wracks her body and she can’t get a handle on it like she’d been able to before and she just… lets it happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her uber arrives and Stiles apologizes to the driver for her, saying it had been a mistake and he gives the driver what the ride would have made him and more for his trouble and goes right back to holding Lydia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, I love you so much.” Lydia says against the skin of his neck and he murmurs his own declarations back in an endless refrain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has no idea how long they stay there, the position uncomfortable and the cold seeping into her bones, but when she finally calms down and they break apart only far enough to look at each other, she takes a full breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t do that again.” She promises him. “I won’t, not ever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiles nods and keeps nodding and pulls her back in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mother finds them there and looks confused until she isn’t and she whispers a small </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, Lydia </span>
  </em>
  <span>and helps them both up before ushering them inside and sitting them in front of the fireplace. She turns it on and leaves them to go make some tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Lydia is dreading the phone call with Laura and the conversations she’ll have to have with the rest of her family and the fact that she's going to have to admit to trying to run again, but for now she just rests her head against Stiles’ shoulder and lets the warmth of the fire slowly sink into her back and bleed into the rest of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A voice in her head keeps insisting she doesn't deserve this, keeps berating her and trying to drag her onto a flight she's probably already missed, and she's </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired </span>
  </em>
  <span>of listening to it. She's tired of letting it convince her she doesn't deserve to be happy because she </span>
  <em>
    <span>already is. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This one small moment here, where they're leaning against each other and he's gripping her hand like a lifeline and she's finally coming </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span> is one where she's </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And she's not going to let the mistakes of her eighteen year old self and six years of perpetuating them ruin it anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's finally walking down the road she didn't take and meeting Stiles at the end of it, preparing to build a future she thought she needed to escape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It aches, like it has for days, but this time it's not because she'll only have the weekend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time it's because she gets to have every moment, big and small, after it. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>p.s. lydia's sisters' full names are Laura, Elizabeth, and Elaine and they were created by the recipient of this fic but she said I could use them and i love them so much that I had to</p><p>p.p.s. i had no idea 'based on a taylor swift song' was an official tag, i love that for ms. taylor</p><p>drop me a heart in the comments it will make mine go ✨❤️✨</p></blockquote></div></div>
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